by Daniel Cole
There had not been room inside the Old Bailey courtroom for Baxter, but she had stubbornly insisted on accompanying Wolf to hear the verdict of the Khalid trial. By that stage he had been suspended from work and everybody on the team was facing a formal investigation into the handling of the case. He had not wanted her to come. The rift between him and Andrea had come to a spectacular head during the week, which had ended in the police being called to their terraced cottage in Stoke Newington, adding fuel to the fabricated domestic abuse stories. Regardless, Baxter had pulled some strings and been permitted to wait outside in the palatial Great Hall for hours on end.
Wolf could still picture the foreman clearly (he looked just like Gandalf) and remembered the clerk asking for the verdict. Everything after that was a blur: shouts of panic, the smell of floor polish, a bloody hand pressed against a white dress.
The only thing that he vividly remembered was the intense pain as the dock security officer shattered his left wrist with a single vicious blow, metal displacing bone. That, and seeing Baxter standing amidst the chaos, tears streaming down her face, asking him repeatedly, ‘What have you done?’
As he stopped struggling and allowed the horde of police officers to restrain him, he watched her take the arm of the blood-spattered juror and lead her out to safety. When Baxter disappeared through the heavy double doors, he had believed that he would never see her again.
Wolf’s reverie was interrupted by an annoying beeping and the familiar assortment of whirrs and bangs that always emanated from the malfunctioning fax machine. He could see Baxter, deep in conversation with Simmons in his office. They had not had any contact since he walked out of the flat, and both women were gone by the time he had traipsed back home. He felt a little guilty, but had far too much on his mind to get stuck in the middle of their enduring feud. With no time to do anything useful, he picked up the monitoring form and left the office.
Wolf’s session with Dr Preston-Hall had not gone at all well and he was relieved to leave the fusty office behind and step back out into the reliable drizzle of a British summer. Although it was warm, he pulled his coat on over his white shirt. He still had the small trophy sitting on the corner of his desk that Finlay had presented to him after getting caught in a hailstorm wearing the same cheap garment: Miss Wet T-shirt 2013. He had been self-conscious about it ever since.
He thought about the meeting as he ambled back towards New Scotland Yard. Dr Preston-Hall had voiced her concerns regarding the amount of pressure that he was under and the effect of seeing another two people die in front of him just since their meeting on Monday. Fortunately no one had gotten around to informing her about Chambers’ death.
Although the sessions should have been based solely upon the information provided in Finlay’s reports and the doctor’s own confidential conversations with Wolf, it had been impossible to avoid the photograph that had dominated the news reports the previous day.
The doctor said that the photo was the most honest thing that he had ever given her to work with, albeit unintentionally, and that anyone could see that the man clutching the dead woman’s hand was breaking apart. She told him that she would be phoning Simmons to advise that Wolf ‘take a less prominent role in the investigation going forward’, whatever that meant, and then promptly dismissed him again until Monday morning.
The office was half empty when Wolf returned. Two teenagers had been killed in a gang-related stabbing in Edmonton overnight, and a third was critically ill in hospital. It was another reminder that London was carrying on as usual and that the Ragdoll murders, the lives of those marked to die, and Wolf’s own fight for survival, were nothing more than interesting topics of conversation for the millions of people not involved.
There was a message waiting for him when he got back to his desk. Andrew Ford, the security guard and number four on the list, had been demanding to speak to Wolf in person since the previous morning. He was becoming increasingly aggressive towards the officers assigned to him as time wore on. Apparently Baxter had attended in his stead, only to have been swiftly rebuffed by the boorish man.
When they were called into the meeting room, Wolf took the empty seat beside Baxter, who had reverted to her usual unapproachable self, complete with dark make-up and bored expression.
‘Morning,’ he said casually.
‘Morning,’ she replied brusquely, not meeting his eye.
He gave up and turned to speak to Finlay instead.
(HEAD) Naguib Khalid ‘The Cremation Killer’
(TORSO) – ?
(LEFT ARM) platinum ring, law firm?
(RIGHT ARM) nail varnish?
(LEFT LEG) – ?
(RIGHT LEG) Detective Benjamin Chambers
A – Raymond Turnble (Mayor)
B – Vijay Rana/Khalid (Brother/accountant)
C – Jarred Garland (Journalist)
D – Andrew Ford (Security guard/alcoholic/pain in arse)
E – Ashley Lochlan (Waitress) or (nine-year-old girl)
F – Wolf
They all stared at the list in silence, hoping that inspiration might strike and an obvious link would suddenly present itself. They had spent the first twenty minutes of the meeting arguing themselves in circles, which had prompted Simmons to scrawl their current progress up on the flipchart in his almost illegible handwriting. Seeing it written down like this, they had achieved a decidedly underwhelming amount.
‘The Cremation Killings must be the key,’ said Finlay. ‘Khalid, his brother, Will …’
‘His brother had nothing to do with the trial,’ said Simmons, adding an annotation to the list. ‘He wasn’t even there.’
‘Maybe when Alex gets back with a name for us it’ll make more sense,’ said Finlay with a shrug.
‘It won’t,’ interjected Baxter. ‘Edmunds has got twenty-two people who owned those rings. Not one of them was involved in Khalid’s trial.’
‘Ben was, though, wasn’t he?’ asked Finlay.
There was an uncomfortable pause on mention of the name. Finlay looked guilty for bringing up his deceased colleague, as though he were just another part of the puzzle.
‘Chambers was involved, but no more than anyone else in this room,’ Baxter replied unemotionally. ‘And even if he was, how would it link to the rest of the list?’
‘How thoroughly have we delved into these other people’s backgrounds?’ asked Simmons.
‘We’re doing the best we can, but could really use some more help,’ said Baxter.
‘Well, there isn’t any,’ snapped Simmons irately. ‘I’ve already got a third of the department helping out on this. I can’t spare anyone else.’
Baxter backed off, appreciating the amount of pressure that her chief was under.
‘Fawkes, you’ve been unusually quiet, any thoughts?’ asked Simmons.
‘If Khalid’s trial was the key, why would I be on the same list as him? It makes no sense. They want the Cremation Killer dead but also the person who tried to stop him?’
There was a puzzled silence.
‘Could be because it was famous,’ suggested Finlay. ‘Maybe Ben had a big case that caught his attention too.’
‘It’s a thought,’ said Simmons. ‘Look into it.’
At that moment Edmunds burst into the room looking sweaty and dishevelled.
‘The ring belonged to Michael Gable-Collins,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Senior partner at Collins and Hunter.’
‘Collins and Hunter? Why does that ring a bell?’ asked Finlay.
Wolf shrugged.
‘Forty-seven years old, divorced, no children. Interestingly, he attended a partners’ meeting last Friday lunchtime,’ continued Edmunds.
‘So we have an approximate twelve-hour window between that meeting and the discovery of the Ragdoll,’ said Simmons, adding the blue-blooded name to the list.
‘And he definitely wasn’t at the trial?’ asked Finlay, ignoring Baxter’s exasperated sigh.
‘I’m still looking into i
t, but not directly. No,’ said Edmunds.
‘So we’re no closer to finding a link then?’ said Finlay.
‘Oh, the trial’s the link,’ said Edmunds simply.
‘But you just said this bloke had nothing to do with it.’
‘He did though. They all did. We just haven’t worked it out yet. Khalid is the key.’
‘But—’ Finlay started.
‘Moving on,’ Simmons interrupted, glancing down at his watch. ‘Jarred Garland has requested that Detective Baxter take the lead on his protection. I have discussed this at length with her and expect you all to assist her with anything that she needs.’
‘Wait, wait, wait!’ exclaimed Wolf.
‘She will be out of the office for the remainder of today and tomorrow in relation to this. Fawkes will, of course, be happy to continue work on her enquiries in her absence,’ said Simmons firmly.
‘I need to be with Garland,’ said Wolf.
‘You need to consider yourself lucky to still be here at all after the phone call I received from you-know-who-hyphen-what this morning.’
‘Sir, I have to agree with Wolf on this,’ said Edmunds, surprising everyone with his commanding tone. Baxter looked like she might throw something at him. ‘The killer has made the challenge to Wolf. If we alter that dynamic there’s no telling how he might respond. He will consider it an insult.’
‘Good. I certainly hope he does. I’ve made my decision.’
Edmunds shook his head: ‘In my opinion, it’s a mistake.’
‘I may not have a fancy PhD in Cops and Robbers like you, Edmunds, but, believe it or not, I have dealt with a few murderers in my time,’ snapped Simmons.
‘Not like this one,’ said Edmunds.
Finlay and Baxter shifted uncomfortably in their seats as Edmunds obstinately refused to back down.
‘Enough!’ shouted Simmons. ‘You are still on a probationary period here. You would do well to remember that. The killer will attempt to murder Jarred Garland on Saturday whoever is babysitting him. Garland, on the other hand, will not consent to our involvement unless Baxter is the one doing the babysitting.
‘Baxter, bring Fawkes up to speed on your work. Thank you all for the headache. Now go away.’
As the meeting adjourned, Edmunds walked over to speak to Baxter.
‘You little prick,’ she hissed at him. ‘What’s gotten into you?’
‘I—’
‘This is a huge deal for me, and it’s hard enough without you doubting my abilities and embarrassing me in front of my boss.’
Baxter noticed Wolf loitering in the doorway, waiting for a chance to speak with her in private.
‘Know what you’re doing the rest of the day?’ she asked Edmunds.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you can explain it to him.’
She got to her feet and stormed out of the room without acknowledging Wolf. Edmunds smiled weakly at him.
‘How are you on your nail varnishes?’ he asked.
Wolf had phoned the medical examiner to enquire whether they had found anything new in relation to the three unidentified body parts. He was told that they were still running tests and had nothing of investigative value to offer him. He needed to get across to Peckham at some point to meet with Andrew Ford, but was waiting around to speak to Baxter before she left the office.
For some reason Edmunds had suddenly appeared at the end of his desk and had not left, even though Baxter had been in Simmons’ office for thirty-five minutes and her station was sitting empty. Edmunds had been attempting to make conversation, but Wolf was too distracted, watching them, to really engage with him.
‘I had a thought,’ said Edmunds. ‘Our killer is methodical, resourceful and clever. He hasn’t slipped up once yet. Which got me thinking: he’s done this before. Think about it. This person has perfected their art—’
‘Art?’ asked Wolf dubiously.
‘That’s how he’ll see it, and there’s no denying that as awful as the murders are, they are nonetheless, objectively speaking, impressive.’
‘Impressive?’ Wolf snorted. ‘Edmunds, are you the killer?’ he asked, straight-faced.
‘I want to look into old case files,’ this caught Wolf’s attention, ‘for examples of unusual MOs, murders of supposedly inaccessible victims, amputations and mutilations. Somewhere out there he’s left a trail.’
Edmunds had hoped that Wolf would support his idea, perhaps even be impressed by his thinking. Instead, he became angry.
‘We have four of us working this case full-time: four! That’s it. Do you actually think we can spare you to go swanning about looking for a needle in a haystack while people are dying out there?’
‘I was – I was just trying to help,’ stammered Edmunds.
‘Just do your job,’ snapped Wolf as he got to his feet and rushed across the office to intercept Baxter, who had just finished with Simmons.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Not happening.’
Baxter had a file in her hands as she strolled past him towards her desk.
‘If this is about last night …’
‘It’s not.’
As they passed the meeting room, Wolf grabbed Baxter’s wrist and pulled her inside, attracting strange looks from the people sitting nearby.
‘Hey!’ she shouted.
Wolf closed the meeting room door.
‘I’m sorry I walked out last night. We still had things to talk about. She just made me so mad … I shouldn’t have left you with her. I apologise.’
Baxter looked impatient.
‘Do you remember the bit when I said you were beautiful and smart and …’
‘Amazing,’ she reminded him with a smirk.
‘Amazing,’ nodded Wolf. ‘She didn’t like that, did she?’
Baxter smiled broadly: ‘No. No she didn’t.’
‘So let me help you with this Garland situation. I can’t sit with Edmunds any longer. He tried to paint my nails a few minutes ago!’
Baxter laughed: ‘No, but thank you.’
‘Come on, you’re the boss. I’ll do whatever you say.’
‘No. You need to be less controlling. You heard Simmons; he’s on the verge of taking you off the case altogether. Just drop it.’
Wolf looked desperate.
‘Excuse me,’ said Baxter, trying to leave the room.
Wolf did not move from the doorway: ‘You don’t understand. I need to help.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said more forcefully.
Wolf attempted to snatch the file out of her hand. The plastic folder twisted and cracked under the strain as it bridged the space between them. She had seen him like this before, during the Cremation Killer investigation, when she had lost him so entirely to his obsession, when he had no longer been able to tell friend from foe.
‘Let … go … Will.’
She never used his Christian name. She tried again to pull the Garland file free of his grip but couldn’t. All she had to do was shout for help. A dozen officers would burst through the door and Wolf would be taken off the case. She wondered whether she had done the wrong thing by letting it go on this long, by ignoring the signs. She had only wanted to help him, but enough was enough.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
She raised her free hand to bang against the frosted glass but, at that moment, Edmunds came blundering into the room, accidentally opening the door into Wolf’s back.
Wolf released his grip.
‘Sorry,’ said Edmunds. ‘I’ve got a Constable Castagna on the phone for you about Andrew Ford.’
‘I’ll call them back,’ said Wolf.
‘Apparently he’s threatening to jump out of the window.’
‘Constable Castagna or Ford?’
‘Ford.’
‘To escape or kill himself?’
‘Fourth floor, so fifty-fifty.’
Wolf smiled at this, and Baxter watched his transformation back into his normal, irreverent self.
‘Fine, tell them I’m on my way.’
He smiled warmly at Baxter and followed Edmunds out. Baxter waited out of sight behind the frosted glass. She exhaled deeply and then crouched down before she could fall over. She felt light-headed and emotionally drained from making such a significant decision, only to be left feeling as indecisive as ever. She got back up before anyone entered the room, took a steadying breath, and stepped back out into the office.
CHAPTER 17
Thursday 3 July 2014
3.20 p.m.
Wolf had to catch an overground train to Peckham Rye Station, which felt like an irrationally enormous undertaking to him. To reward himself, he bought an extra-hot, double-shot skinny macchiato with sugar-free syrup but then felt rather emasculated when the man behind simply ordered ‘Coffee. Black’.
He ambled along the main road towards a set of three council tower blocks standing proudly over everything else in the vicinity, blissfully unaware or merely undeterred that the rest of the population regarded them as unwelcome eyesores and would tear them down given half a chance. At least the designers of these particular monstrosities had chosen to paint them a perfect ‘miserable, drizzly, smoggy, London-sky grey’, which rendered them almost invisible for 90 per cent of the year.
Wolf approached the one labelled ‘Shakespeare Tower’, unconvinced how much of an honour the great man would have considered it, and sighed as he took in the familiar sights and sounds. Perhaps a dozen flags depicting the St George Cross had been draped out of windows, pledging allegiance to this great country or at least to eleven dependably disappointing footballers. A dog, Wolf guessed a Staffordshire bull terrier or German Shepherd, was barking incessantly from the five-foot balcony that it had been shut out on, and an exhibition of rancid undergarments had been displayed, drying in the rain like grotesque modern art.
Some would accuse him of being bigoted or classist, but they had not spent half of their working lives in identical buildings to this all over the city. He felt that he had earned the right to hate them.
As he approached the main entrance, he could hear shouting from round the back of the building. He walked along the side of the tower block and was surprised to find a grubby-looking man, wearing only a vest and underpants, hanging off a balcony above him. Two police officers were trying in vain to pull him back over, and several neighbours had ventured out onto their own balconies, camera phones at the ready in case they were fortunate enough to capture him fall. Wolf watched the bizarre scene in amusement until one pyjama-clad neighbour eventually recognised him.